


With My Thread and Needle

by misqueue



Series: Scenes During the Break Up [19]
Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Drama, Introspection, Klaine Advent 2013, M/M, Overloaded Metaphors, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 17:41:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5257685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misqueue/pseuds/misqueue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set within episode 4x08 "Thanksgiving". After seeing Blaine in Lima, Kurt tries to move on. For klaineadvent 2013 prompt #19 Stitch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With My Thread and Needle

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the nursery rhyme "Who Killed Cock Robin?" 
> 
>  
> 
> _Who'll make the shroud?_  
>  _I, said the Beetle,_  
>  _With my thread and needle,_  
>  _I'll make the shroud._

It's done: step one of Kurt Hummel's Plan To Get Over Blaine Anderson Once And For All. He sent the text. Kurt sighs the tension from his shoulders and sets his phone facedown on his bed. It's done. He hopes so anyway. Blaine may respond to his text despite Kurt's request.

He's thought about turning his phone off entirely, to avoid hearing any notifications that may indicate a reply. It could only be some vain protestation or yet another pointless apology. Kurt knows there's nothing Blaine can say to change his mind. He just wants Blaine to stop. So if Blaine replies with another text or phone call, Kurt wants to know so he can respond swiftly and with resolution, repeat his previous message. He'll repeat it until Blaine hears it: _"Please stop calling me to say you're sorry. What's done is done, and so are we."_ Maybe it's harsh, but Kurt needs to be clear and firm, for his own sake, if not Blaine's. Closure will benefit them both. A clear and tidy end. No more grief for a future that no longer exists. No looking back. Time to move on. 

His phone doesn't ring or vibrate or ding. It lies quietly inert upon the bedspread. Kurt moves on to step two: lining a memento box in quilted white satin. The glossy paper covering the box is a mistletoe print, which was the least overtly Christmassy of the printed boxes available on early holiday sale at the craft shop. Technically it's an ornament box, but Kurt's removed the dividers. Carefully he measures (twice) and cuts (once) sections of heavy card to fit the bottom and four interior sides of the box. Then he cuts five rectangles of quilted satin polyester with his sharpest sewing shears, leaving a good inch and a half of overhang to fold around the card. The crisp snick and slide of the blades cleaving the material satisfies his hands' urge for destruction. 

He could have easily taken a pair of scissors to the photos containing Blaine, could've cut his face out of every memory, and then chopped the little cut-outs of Blaine into confetti. Sprinkled them into the river like ashes—

Except then, fish might eat them, and Kurt doubts that a snack of finely diced photographs of Blaine would be good for the health of the fish in the East River. And anyway, he's not so foolish as to do something quite so irreversible. As sure as he is now, maybe with time and distance—like when he's thirty and married to someone else—he'll want to reminisce about his High School years. Blaine's been an indelible part of that. He might regret having albums of photographs full of holes. Many are good memories, but in the present, Kurt can't hold onto their fondness and move on successfully. Their past happiness is in danger of becoming a shackle on his heart.

So, Kurt's goal is not to destroy the mementos of Blaine—it's not as though destroying a photograph erases Blaine from his mind anyway. Though he did spend some time debating with himself the merits of—ultimately—burning everything. Some people say that helps. He could make a proper funeral of it, build a little pyre in the fireplace, burn it all. But, no. Enough irreversible endings come in life without his consent or control, he won't choose one here.

He shall simply contain memories of Blaine, all in one place, this box, and put them to rest somewhere not readily accessible. Under his bed where he can't easily reach. Or in their basement storage locker. Or he could seal the box in a plastic bag and bury it at home when he heads back for Christmas.

(And he suppresses the pang of sadness that he's not going home for Thanksgiving.)

He takes the squares of material to his desk and adjusts the light so he can see clearly what he's doing. With waxed red thread he threads his needle, and runs, by hand, a tidy overcast stitch along the edges of the white quilted rectangles. Even though they'll be folded and glued to the cardboard, he doesn't want the fabric unraveling. His sewing machine would be quicker, but his hands are still restless, and he can use the practice. The rhythm of each stitch as he spaces them out, loops and pierces, tugs and pulls, satisfies a different urge of his hands, for precision and attention. 

Once he's got all five pieces ready, he neatly affixes the satin to the cardboard with his hot glue gun, and then fits each piece into its place to line the box. He checks that the lid still fits—it does. Good. He sits back and sighs. Readies himself for the next part. Considers waiting until tomorrow, but if he waits, he may lose his momentum—or his nerve. 

So he pulls out his photo albums and goes through, page by page, removing photos of Blaine, or of the two of them. He hesitates over group photographs. Deciding case-by-case would be best, but he doesn't want to engage with the individual moments too much, because then he may stall himself. Or cry. Tonight, he's not crying; he's done enough of that. He makes an arbitrary rule: five or more people in the photo stay in the album. Fewer than five go in the box.

He takes photographs out of their frames to put in the box. Adds, too, the red ring box with the gum wrapper ring, the vintage pocket watch Blaine gave him for Valentine's day. He considers getting the monogrammed towels from graduation, but there's no room for them. Nevertheless, birthday cards and notes passed at school—ones from both Dalton and McKinley—go in. Receipts from the Lima Bean and Breadstix. Ticket stubs from _Rent_. An unused invitation to the White House Easter Egg Roll. A gingerbread cookie recipe in Blaine's handwriting. A blue satin sleepmask. Two dried carnation boutonnieres, a handful of rose petals, and a pressed lilac blossom. An old summer scarf with green and purple butterflies. Birthday cards. Cards Blaine gave him for no reason other than to say, I love you. A second, newer, summer scarf of bright red poppies. A pair of password protected USB memory sticks of more intimate photos, never printed, never shared. Everything he can find that carries too much memory of Blaine goes in the box. Kurt doesn't cry; he doesn't feel much of anything.

The box is brimming when Kurt's finished scouring his room for mementos of Blaine. The lid won't lay flat, and Kurt's reluctant to press down too hard lest he crumple the fragile items in the box. Maybe he has some ribbon or cord he can use to tie the lid to keep it from slipping off. Or he could tape it. That's more permanent and will stop him from idly opening the box in weak moments of premature nostalgia.

Rachel had bought a pack of masking tape back when they were painting the loft. Most of it should still be somewhere. He exits his bedroom and rummages through the baskets and boxes on the utility shelves between their rooms. Finds the tape and goes back to his room.

He neatly tapes up the box and slides it under his bed. Done and done. Then, in the middle of his bed, Kurt sits, straight backed and cross-legged. He exhales. Inhales. Exhales. Tries to let his mind find a new equilibrium now that he's done what he can to clear out the relics of being with Blaine from his heart. Put it all to rest.

 _What now?_ he asks himself. Quietly he sits and waits, as if the universe will send him an epiphany. Which is ridiculous. Mostly he just realizes he needs to get ready for work.

.

Late that night, Kurt's not sleeping still, and he's not taking an Ambien. Instead he's working on another project, to soothe his restless insomnia and distract himself from the dread filled ruminations of two AM.

Altering a waistcoat consumes his concentration. It's an old favorite, a classic Hartwist striped tweed in a warm palette of sepia browns and coppery oranges. The fit on him has become poor; it's too baggy around the waist and it's been pulling across his upper back. The top of the center seam is in danger of tearing, and so Kurt is carefully picking the threads apart with his seam ripper and plucking the broken threads free of the fabric. Unfortunately, they've left holes in the fabric, and so he'll need to replace both back panels. 

_"You and your ex have a rapprochement?"_ Isabelle had asked him tonight.

With a frown, Kurt returns his attention to the work of his hands. He's got some brown bemburg rayon in the trunk under his bed he may be able to use. When the two back panels come free of the front tweed and each other, Kurt sets them down on his desk and goes to kneel beside his bed. Reaching under for the trunk of sewing notions and fabric, he spies the mistletoe box and hesitates.

 _"I'm closing the book on that sad saga. I'm just, I'm done. I'm done thinking about it, thinking if we're going to get back together. Wondering if we should get back together. No. It's over,"_ he had said.

Kurt swallows and blinks and drags the trunk out, rummages for the brown rayon, finds it, and stands. He sets it on the desk beside the tweed. Under the light, it's not the right tone to match the plaid—it's too sallow. He'll need something with warmer tones. Which he doesn't have on hand, so he may need to go for a bolder contrast. He has some navy blue satin with a tonal diamond print; something different could rejuvenate the garment entirely.

 _"In my experience, it's always easier for me to move on if I've either had my apology accepted or, in your case, accepted an apology,"_ Isabelle said.

He slides the trunk out again, replaces the brown rayon and finds the blue satin. He looks at the mistletoe print box again. It's a casket of good memories; he wants to move on from this pain. An odd juxtaposition. Kurt sits back on his heels and his heart thuds in his chest, like it wants his attention.

_"Sometimes it's the not forgiving that holds us back."_

The trouble is, he doesn't know how to forgive Blaine. He misses him of course; that's the grief of it all. But Blaine's not dead and neither is he. Is it possible for him to accept an apology without forgiving Blaine? Can it work that way? Could he say to Blaine, "I hear you and I believe you, but I haven't forgiven you."

Does he have to forgive Blaine? Is forgiveness necessary? And if so, why can't he? Does he not want to? Does he feel so self-righteous that he doesn't actually want to forgive Blaine? Doesn't think Blaine deserves it? It's true he's been thinking that, no, he doesn't want to ease Blaine's conscience over this. Maybe he has been using it as a way to punish Blaine—to let him feel some portion of the pain he's caused Kurt. But if what Isabelle says is true, then perhaps he's punishing himself just as much. After all, Blaine's pain doesn't ease his own. Even if it did, Kurt needn't be so cruel.

What would it be like if he did? Forgive. It's hard to imagine being able to let go of the resentment. Is it something he may choose?

He has to lie on his stomach to reach the mistletoe box. He drags it out from under his bed and carefully unsticks the tape. The ache in his chest is anxious, as if he doesn't know what to expect if he opens the box. So he opens it to find out.

As he takes the photographs and objects out, one by one, he looks at them the way he did on lonely days when he simply felt love and missed Blaine. He lets himself smile at the warmth of those memories without slipping into anger and regret. He misses Blaine so much. Trying to cleave all of that emotion away from his own heart—as if he can actually box it up—it's a fatal kind of injury to self-inflict. He doesn't need to regret; he could be grateful instead. Which is another choice.

He gets to the oldest of the mementos, from when they were friends. Best friends. Before Pavarotti died, before Blaine wanted to sing a duet with him. Before all of it, Blaine was his best friend.

He thinks—he's not sure, the idea is too new, a tiny nova bloom of insight. He thinks he does want to forgive Blaine. He still doesn't know how, but he wants his best friend back. He can at least accept an apology. That's a place to start, and tomorrow is Thanksgiving.


End file.
